


Homo Homini Lupus

by lindenmae



Series: The Highland Hound series [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:40:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is given the chance to return to the arena, to prove himself to the citizens, but it comes at a terrible cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homo Homini Lupus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendyloulou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendyloulou/gifts).



> Violence, gore. Blood everywhere which is par for the course in this series. Some serious hurt/comfort and Eames get to sort of dominate for once. Drugged sex and related consent issues. Sedation without consent, imprisonment. Saito is a manipulative bastard. When Arthur is in heat he cannot be denied. If I've forgotten anything let me know.

Eames steps out of the shadows and immediately the sun embraces him, reflections shining off his oil-slicked skin, bright and blinding. He flexes and his muscles ripple. He’s still strong, still fit, still a beast of a man. He knows he looks dangerous, that the thick black lines of ink that cut through the golden tan of his flesh mark him as “other”. The entire empire is a melting pot of different cultures and the City is the cradled gem in the crown of that diversity. Eames’s tribal past is not what makes him wholly different from other faces in the crowd. The man he loves does. 

Adrenaline courses through his veins and his heart beats hard beneath his ribcage as he takes the first step into the arena. If he’s honest, he has missed this – the thrill of an impending fight. He takes a breath and braces himself. He’s not the man he was the last time he stood in this arena. These men and women – the Empire’s elite – have seen him at his weakest, taken down, pressed into the sand, bloody and beaten. He didn’t question it as he waited in the tunnels while the slaves oiled him up and he batted their fine-boned hands away when they grabbed for his cock. But he wonders what they think of him now, all these highborn, bloodthirsty souls clamoring on high for violence, even the slaves and the other gladiators. They think they’ve seen him at his weakest. They saw him defeated by a Highland Hound in a fight he could never have hoped to win, that he was never expected to. They thought he would die by the Hound’s claws and he wonders, until the very last moment, if the crowd will want his throat now, if they’ll laugh at the idea that he could still be a warrior of any kind. His heart pounds and it’s all he can hear until he’s standing in the center of the arena and the roar of the crowd surges in his ears. 

He raises his head and through the slits in his helmet, he surveys his audience. He watches their faces for anger, for mockery, for malice. Their expressions are cruel but he cannot tell if it is anything more than the desire for blood that twists their mouths so. There is no indication that it is his they want. He wants to look by habit for Mal’s haughty sneer at Saito’s side, but he knows she isn’t there, isn’t in the arena at all. The brunette at the Emperor’s right is smaller and sweeter-faced and looks on the arena with barely concealed disdain for the spectacle. Ariadne is an idealist, a visionary, nothing like Saito at all and yet, somehow, she is the perfect successor to him. He adopted her formally shortly after Eames came to live in the compound and while Eames cares little for her either way, Arthur loves her. Arthur softens in her presence, allowing her to rest a hand on his arm or his back without a thought, behavior Eames has only seen Arthur ever exhibit in the presence of General Cobb. He could admit that his slight dislike for the Emperor’s ward may have something to do with jealousy, but it would never be aloud. It would be inane anyway, because Arthur hardly ever stops touching Eames. There have been moments where Eames has truly believed that if Arthur could cut him open and crawl inside his body without killing him then Arthur would, just to be that much closer to his mate. 

Eames meets the Emperor’s eyes from beneath his helmet and raises his sword in acknowledgement and the crowd explodes. He is overwhelmed at first by the sheer volume of their cheering. When a wreath of flowers lands at his feet, followed by another and ten more after that, he looks to Saito and finds the Emperor is smiling. Even Senator Fischer, seated to his left, seems pleased. This is a grave time. Eames knows he is not in this arena just for the sake of amusing the masses. A traitor has been found out in the senate, an attempt made on Cobb’s life, and a murder committed in broad daylight at the hands of a Hound. Eames is here to distract the City from rising up and demanding Mal’s head on a spike. He cannot remember the exact sound of Mal’s unearthly wailing with the screams of the crowd in his ears, but he remembers how it felt deep within his chest when she began to howl from the heart of the city. He’d never felt so sad and alone in his life, not even after the decimation of his village. Mal’s cries ripped something apart in his own heart, not helped by Arthur lunging out of their bed and running to the compound’s courtyard, naked and bristling, ready to kill to protect his sister. 

And that was something Eames hadn’t known prior to that terrible night. The familial bonds of the Highland Hounds are not as rigid as Eames is used to, not as defined as they are amongst human families. The Hounds lived in isolation for too long on their fog enshrouded island to care much for blood ties. They are fiercely loyal to the ones they love though blood does not always bind them. But Eames was informed by the court physician that Mal and Arthur are pureblood siblings, so while Arthur had been perfectly willing to kill his half-brother, Nash, over a perceived transgression, he would likewise die for Mal who is older and helped raise him. Arthur bore no ill-will toward Mal for her part in sending him into the arena while he was in heat, appreciative himself of the violence, but Eames cannot honestly say the same. Mal unsettles him and he avoids her if possible, more than he worries about staying out of the way of Nash. He makes a constant conscious effort to never show fear to the Hounds but in Mal’s presence it is especially difficult. Her eyes are piercing and her fangs are sharper than a wolf’s and every time he looks at her, he sees the way she smiled at his imminent death as Cobb led Arthur into the arena.   
That fateful night that her screams echoed across the whole of the City, Mal murdered a senator by raking her claws across his face and stomach and ripping his throat out with her teeth. It wasn’t until well after Mal had been dragged from the bloody scene, held down by no less than six full grown men, that Cobb’s men found the evidence that tied Senator Cobol to a plot to assassinate the Emperor, beginning with his inner circle. The first casualty was to have been the General – a knife slipped between his ribs by a masked assassin – but Cobol did not take Saito’s pets into consideration when formulating his plans. Eames suspects that the senator must have looked down upon General Cobb for taking a Hound as his wife, though Eames knows from experience that it was never Cobb’s choice but to give into Mal once she set her sights on him. So, Cobol was not prepared for Mal’s utterly animalistic reaction to seeing her mate’s blood on the ground. The assassin was caught trying to break through the crowd that had formed and now Eames is to fight him and this time expected to come out the victor.

“Gladiator,” Saito calls out to him, his voice thunderous over the shouts of the audience. “Are you prepared to fight?”

Eames does not respond, only raises his sword again and bangs the hilt of it against his shield. The crowd rises with him and more flowers litter the dirt. They are treating him as if the battle has already been won, as if he is some kind of hero. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen! May I present your champion! Eames, the Hound’s lover!” The crowd erupts with adoration and Saito’s smug smile grows. “They love you, Gladiator. They fear the Hounds but you are proof they can be tamed.”

And Eames suddenly understands. The Emperor didn’t get his power by mistake. He is smart and cunning and he is manipulating his people now. He has no intention of executing his favorite pet and he is using Eames to remind the citizens that there are humans that walk safely among the Hounds. He has spun the story so that the people believe Eames has mastered Arthur and not the other way around. They didn’t watch him brutalized by Arthur that day; they watched him tame the beast. And it is true in a way, he realizes, because Arthur has said over and over that he would die without Eames. But human physiology does not work like the Hounds’ and Eames could live on without Arthur for the rest of his life. It is only likely that he would not want to. He is an example to these people. He is human and he loves a Hound and he is healthy and happy and one of them. If they live peacefully side by side with the Hounds they have nothing to fear. That is what their emperor wants them to believe. 

The gates are raised and the assassin forced out. He is slim and young and Eames can sensel the fear on him. This is a man who does best to keep to the shadows. He is probably quick and light footed but he doesn’t know what to do when eyes are on him and Eames will make quick work of him here. There will hardly be a show. He feels no remorse for this man who hurt someone that he considers a friend and will not be sorry to be the one to kill him. He advances on his opponent, a sinister grin spreading across his face. Cobol was too desperate in his desire to depose Saito and he did not make the best choice when it came to his killers, not based on the way the would-be assassin is shaking minutely even as he attempts to put on a brave face. Nash would have been a better choice, no one expecting the dog to turn on its master, or one of Cobb’s own men, but Cobol seemingly chose this inexperienced coward for hire off the street. Eames isn’t sad to see Cobol dead either. 

He’s high on adrenaline and the accolades from the crowd and he misses the foreign sound at first, amidst the clang of steel as his sword meets the assassin’s shield. He thinks he might play with the mouse first, give the crowd exactly what they want, but the sound persists, faint at first but growing steadily louder. It suddenly feels as if something heavy and cold has lodged deep in Eames’s chest where his heart should be and then he knows, he _knows_. The noise rises above the roar of the crowd until the citizens fall eerily silent, shifting uncomfortably. They too have heard this sound before, once. Eames takes a step back, his sword still gripped tightly in his fist, and he chances a glance at the Emperor’s box to see if this is also part of Saito’s plan. But no, Saito’s eyes are wide in his normally stoic face. Ariadne is on her feet, horror plain across her face and even Fischer looks unsettled, uncomfortable in his seat.

Somewhere outside of the arena another Hound is howling. It isn’t Mal, Eames knows, because he saw her sedated and caged, curled into a corner and drooling where her face was pressed against her arm. Yusuf had told him explicitly that she would remain in such a state until he could be certain of Cobb’s recovery. But Eames wouldn’t have mistaken this howl for Mal’s anyway. He knows immediately, instinctively, that this is Arthur. This is _his_ Hound. 

“You didn’t tell him!” Ariadne is screaming. “You brought Eames out here and you didn't tell Arthur! What have you done?”

Eames takes another step back and falters because he can hear the pain in Arthur’s cries, he can _feel_ it. Ariadne is right, Arthur doesn’t know where he is and so soon after watching his sister nearly lose her mate and her mind, he can't be thinking clearly. When Saito and Fischer had come to him that morning and asked him to reenter the arena, Arthur had been outside of the cages trying to calm his brethren who were close to rioting over worry for Mal, a powerful alpha female, and the closest thing to a princess the Hounds have. Eames had just assumed that the idea for the fight had been put to Arthur first and had thought nothing of saying yes. He was happy for the freedom, for his chance to prove himself to the people, to flex his muscles and remind himself of his strength as much as anyone else. 

The howls grow louder, longer, more heartbreaking, and Eames stumbles. He forgets himself and shows his opponent a weakness and is actually surprised when the man takes advantage by lunging forward and trying to sink his dagger into Eames’s gut. But Eames is a seasoned fighter and brings his sword down in a shining arc before the assassin can do much more than gouge his skin. The would-be killer’s head sends up a spray of sand when it bounces on the ground, neatly severed from the neck. 

“Are you happy now?” He roars over the gasps of the crowd, his focus trained solely on the Emperor. He doesn’t wait for an answer before running to the nearest gate, pounding against it with his weapon. 

“You’ll let me out of here or I’ll sever your head like I’ve just done his, may the gods damn you!”

The gates don’t come up quickly enough for his haste, so he rolls through the gap between the gate and the ground before there is enough room for his shoulders to safely pass through. A few scratches mean nothing to him while Arthur’s pain is still echoing over the arena. He runs back to the compound, faces and buildings a blur. He is covered in sand and oil and bleeding from several points on his body, and his appearance elicits more than a few stares. He doesn’t care, can’t care. The howls grow fainter, and have stopped altogether by the time he bursts into his and Arthur’s rooms only to find them empty and practically destroyed. Bedding is strung about the main room in blood-soaked shreds, hanging low like gruesome gossamer curtains. Vases and busts are broken, furniture upturned and thrown clear across the room. Eames’s heart stutters and he’s forced to draw breath in short, ragged gasps as he begins to imagine the worst. Sinking to his knees, Eames lets his head hang as he tries to catch his breath and force his brain to complete rational thoughts. 

“He’s been caged.” 

Eames starts, completely unaware that anyone had come upon him, and looks sharply over his shoulder, his eyes red and sight blurry. It looks like Arthur at first and Eames chokes because he wants it to be but it isn’t Arthur. It can’t be Arthur. 

“Nash,” Eames growls, completely unafraid in the Hound’s presence for once, too blinded by his emotions to be nervous. 

Nash smiles, it’s lopsided and would be nearly endearing if Eames didn’t already despise the Hound so thoroughly. “It’s your fault, human. He’s been locked away and it’s all your fault. Nice not to be the one in the cage for once.”

Nash steps back when Eames lunges, completely unfazed by the gladiator’s anger. It only takes a second for Eames to decide it’s not worth it to fight Nash now and he barely brushes past, shoving Nash to the side before stumbling down the corridor toward the cages, nestled deep and hidden within the mountainside. 

…

“Arthur! _Arthur_!” His shouts echo off the walls of the cavern, coming back to him with no response. The cages are built into the rock and only one is occupied, the two figures within barely stirring at his voice.

Mal is sitting though her back is hunched and when she looks at him, her eyes are glassy and mostly unseeing. Arthur’s head is cradled gently in her lap and she’s running her fingers through his hair almost mechanically, calming even though there is no anger left in him. There is a muzzle attached to his face and packed with cotton soaked in Yusuf’s sedative. He can’t be angry anymore. But Eames can. Seeing Arthur like that renews his desperation and he throws over a chair in a fit of pique before finally turning on Yusuf. Yusuf watches the entire scene unfold with detached calm. There are guards stationed just inside the cavern looking at each other hesitantly, wondering if they should try to subdue Eames. They’re in for a fight if they do but Yusuf waves them off, narrowing his eyes at Eames before turning back to his task, which Eames belatedly realizes is tending to a severely injured guard. There is another one on a cot beside him. They’re not dead but they’re close to it. Their discarded armor lies in the corner, the chest pieces dented and scratched and caked with dried blood that makes them look rusted. Eames begins to paint a picture in his mind and his heart sinks further.

“What happened?” He tries to growl the words but his voice cracks and they come out a whisper. “Yusuf.”

Yusuf ties off one final bandage on the sleeping soldier and turns to him, looking, not grave but resigned There is none of the humor that usually graces his features.

“Arthur went into heat unexpectedly and when he couldn’t find you…” Yusuf trails off, waving his hand to indicate the fallen soldiers and the unconscious Hound. “No one is dead… yet.”

“How is that even possible?” Eames demands frantically. “His heat isn’t due for another month at least!”

Yusuf shrugs but he rises, the keys to the cages jangling in his hands. He opens the door to the big cage and snorts impatiently at Mal’s halfhearted growl. 

“This one,” he says, pointing at her, “is pregnant. I believe the chemical change within her body may have spurred one to occur in Arthur. The Hounds are still a total mystery even to me, you know. I do what I can but they continue to amaze me. I don’t know if Mal’s pregnancy affected Arthur because of their unique bond or if it’s something more primal. However it happened, it’s ended in quite a mess.”

He shoos Mal away and she goes dumbly, her movements awkward and slow due to the sedative still coursing through her. Crouching, Yusuf unhooks the muzzle and slips it from Arthur’s face. The leather leaves behind angry red marks on his cheeks and with it gone, Eames notices the sweat dewing on Arthur’s forehead and breastbone. 

“Give him to me,” Eames demands. His chest aches for the pathetic sight that is this usually majestic creature. 

With the chemical removed, Arthur begins to whimper, his eyes roll around wildly behind his eyelids as his body tries desperately to wake itself. There is blood streaked down his bare chest and caked in his hair, and Eames can see tear tracks hugging the contours of his cheekbones. He couldn’t have known this would happen but he is suddenly irrationally angry with himself, with the emperor, even with Arthur. He loves the Hound so damn fiercely that it physically aches sometimes, but he suspects that his life would have been far simpler had he fallen in love with another human.

“Give him over, Yusuf. I’m not leaving him in here like this. Like an animal.”

“I had taken Mal off of the sedative once I realized her condition,” Yusuf explains as he crawls back out of the cage, completely ignoring the desperation in Eames’s voice. “Cobb is expected to make a full recovery. I don’t know what the punishment will be for Arthur or if there will be one, but I’m not a jailer. You may take him.”

Eames ducks into the cage, keeping his eyes trained on Mal whom he does not trust even drugged, and gingerly wraps his arms around Arthur’s slender body. He is waking but still dead weight and Eames struggles to lift him.

“The heat will counteract the sedative,” Yusuf warns him as he begins to walk away. “He won’t be completely alert for several hours but he should be awake within minutes.”  
Eames nods and hugs Arthur closer to his chest. Arthur’s skin is clammy and his breathing is shallow and Eames feels sick for the state he is in. Arthur starts to squirm weakly and Eames tightens his grasp.

“Easy, darling. I’ve got you.” Arthur seems to recognize his voice as he immediately calms, curling into Eames’s chest and snuffling lightly at his neck, inhaling his scent as if to be sure he is safe.

Eames gives the guards a hard stare before they even move to block his path, not certain they would have done so, and they let him pass in silence. He would have no problem killing a man outside of the arena if anyone were to try and separate him and his Hound now. He carries Arthur all the way to their chambers on sure legs, propelled by adrenaline and anger. He passes men and Hounds on his way and they watch him quietly – the Hounds with silent simmering rage and the humans with barely concealed worry – but no one stops him or even gets in his way.

He gingerly places Arthur onto their bed and tries to turn away so that he might replace the bedding and blankets that Arthur destroyed but Arthur clings to him, wrapping his arms around Eames’s neck and holding on tightly, whimpering in his sleep. Even unconscious, Arthur is strong and after a minute of fruitlessly trying to extricate himself from Arthur’s hold, Eames has no choice but to follow the Hound down onto the bed. He is still filthy from the arena, his own skin nearly as bloody as Arthur’s. He has all but forgotten the injury done him until his twisting reminds him with a sharp flash of pain across his abdomen. He grimaces and glances down. The blood has congealed over the wound and it is not life-threatening in any way. But still, he is fully aware of his own discomfort now, settled back into his own space with his lover in his arms.

He pulls away from Arthur again, who whines and tries to follow, eyes slowly coming open.

“Stay, Arthur,” Eames commands and surprisingly, he does, splaying himself over the space Eames has left vacant and digging his nose into the linen, placating himself with Eames’s smell. There is a small cupboard off the main room in which there is a fountain fed by a small offshoot of the hot springs. Eames wets a cloth and strips, scrubbing himself down quickly until the grit is gone from his skin and dried blood is no longer flaking from his wound. It is not unusual for there to be small wounds after he and Arthur have lain together so they keep some salve and cheesecloth in the small room always. Eames wraps a portion of cloth around his waist to stem the slightly renewed bleeding and dips his rag back into the fountain so that it will still be warm when he presses it to Arthur’s skin. 

Arthur is awake when Eames comes back into the room, wild-eyed and delirious, but thankfully still too heavy with sedative to do any damage. He struggles to sit up when he sees Eames but his limbs don’t obey, so he thrashes weakly against the bed in frustration and lets out a pitiful whine. Eames goes to the bed and sits close enough that Arthur can lay his head against Eames’s thigh. He is still sweating and when Eames gets closer he can see that Arthur’s irises are red-rimmed even through the fog of drug. 

“Smelled you,” Arthur slurs, smiling and rubbing his cheek against Eames’s naked thigh like a cat. “But you were gone before.”

Eames feels a pang of guilt at that. He ignores it, presses the wet cloth to Arthur’s exposed cheek and wipes it across the skin, picking up a layer of dirt but not quite managing to erase the stain left behind by his tears. He moves on to Arthur’s arms and chest, taking his time to make sure he gets rid of all of the blood. Arthur’s hands are wrapped, Eames hadn’t noticed before in his emotional state. Where his fingers are trapped beneath the cloth it is stained pink and Eames realizes that, in his destructive state, Arthur probably shredded his own claws as well as their bedding. He makes a sympathetic noise in the base of his throat and brings each of Arthur’s bound hands up to his lips to kiss. Arthur hums appreciatively, rolling onto his back, exposing his stomach to Eames. 

The sedative is making him more pliant than he would ever normally be during a heat but there is still a sense of urgency, a vital energy running through him. 

“You were gone,” Arthur repeats, a little clearer. Eames has moved down the bed to begin unlacing Arthur’s leggings and he looks up, feeling guilty again, and meets Arthur’s cloudy eyes. They're sad rather than accusing, as if Arthur cannot understand _why_ Eames was gone. 

“We talked about this, Arthur.” Eames speaks softly, slowly. Arthur isn’t going to understand in his state. He’s never entirely incoherent during his heats, more like he’s thick. After they couple, Arthur can hold basic conversations, but it is harder to get ideas through to him when his mind is solely focused on mating. 

“No. I couldn't find you. I thought you left.”

“I would never have gone anywhere had I known you’d be going into heat, my love. It was an accident. No one’s fault.” Eames peels the leather from Arthur’s skin, exposing his milky pale thighs and freeing his cock. Eames inhales sharply at it. It is hard and angry red, purpling at the tip, not like Eames has seen it since the first time Arthur mated him. They are normally so good about his heats that Arthur is never brought to such desperation. “Oh my poor, poor darling.”

“Eames,” Arthur whines. His eyes are opened wide, the clouds clearing from them and leaving them limpid. He bucks his hips once, a jerky and impulsive movement. “Please.”

Arthur’s body is still weak and his mind is still shrouded in fog but Eames can’t bear to see him beg after everything that has happened. He won’t put Arthur through any more pain if he can help it. He wraps one hand around the base of Arthur’s cock, around the knot not yet swollen, and Arthur keens. His head falls back against the bed with a thump and he makes a feeble effort to raise a bandaged hand to Eames’s head, but his arm doesn’t make it more than an inch from horizontal before he gives up. Eames gets onto his knees to spare his wounded stomach and purses his lips, touching them lightly to the purple tip of Arthur’s cock at first. 

He can taste Arthur’s sweat and his arousal, the adrenaline that had been coursing through him only hours before, all in that one soft kiss. He flicks out his tongue, presses the tip of it into the slit, not too deep or too hard, just a little pressure, enough to make Arthur’s hips jump again. Eames presses his free hand firmly against Arthur’s sharp hipbone and presses his ass back against the bed. When Arthur isn’t in heat they sometimes have gentle sex, where Arthur does his best to smother Eames against the bed sheets, wanting to touch at every inch of their bodies, fucking Eames with slow and languid strokes. This time though, is the first that Eames is in control. Arthur is in no state to fight him and is certainly without the strength to turn this around and pin him. Arthur is at his mercy for once and the knowledge of that makes this all the more thrilling for Eames.   
Arthur is already panting above him, his chest heaving, the fading daylight reflecting out of the pool of sweat in Arthur’s sternum. 

“Eames,” he moans, his voice cracking at the end. 

Eames takes pity on him and opens his lips just wide enough to slip the head of Arthur’s cock into his mouth, drawing a broken moan from his lover. He swirls his tongue around the taut skin, moving his lips down the shaft in excruciatingly small increments. He is going to savor this. He’s sucked Arthur before but it’s always been a short and violent affair, Arthur’s fingers twined in his hair, using his grip as leverage to pull Eames’s mouth onto his cock. He’ll take a moment to appreciate the way Eames’s lips look swollen and red around him, but normally sex for Arthur is an instinctual thing. Arthur shows his love for Eames in a multitude of ways and often at unexpected times but not while they’re fucking. Before and always after when they’re tied together and Arthur acts as if he’d never pull out if they could live like that, but during is always fast and rough and if Arthur is in heat it’s even moreso. 

Eames takes his mouth off Arthur’s cock with a long suck and an audible pop, reducing Arthur to a writhing mess, and mouths his way down the swollen shaft, leaving open-mouthed sucking kisses along the thick vein on the underside of Arthur’s organ. He licks around Arthur’s balls once he reaches them, tasting the sweat pooled there and the unique musk that is all Arthur’s, then takes them into his mouth one at a time. They seem to fit perfectly behind his lips, sitting heavy on his tongue. He tightens his fingers around Arthur’s knot, squeezing with a strength he can’t manage when the knot is lodged deep inside of him. Arthur’s cock jumps in his hand and he groans low around his mouthful. 

His own cock is hard, pressed against his belly and Arthur’s leg and it takes all of his willpower not to begin right there, like that. He lets Arthur’s sac fall from his mouth and gives one final parting kiss to the tight skin beneath it, eliciting a squeal from the Hound. Mumbled pleas fall from Arthur’s lips in rapid succession, slurred and heavy and indecipherable. But Eames knows what he wants. 

“I love you,” he whispers as he returns to Arthur’s cock and finally gives in to Arthur’s desires, opening his throat and sinking all the way down until his lips kiss his hand. He hums and swallows and drool drips from his mouth, coating his thumb. He takes his hand from Arthur’s hip, moving to scoop some of his spit from Arthur’s skin. He cups Arthur’s balls and slips his index finger beneath them to rub against Arthur’s perineum and then lower, to tease at his hole. 

His own hips jerk involuntarily and he gives in to the urge to hump Arthur’s knee, rubbing his cock against Arthur’s warm skin and what’s left of the bed sheets. Arthur’s muscles relax for an instant on an exhale and Eames slips his finger inside, probing until his fingertip brushes against Arthur’s prostate and his entire body goes taut like a bowstring, a silent scream opening his mouth wide. Eames doesn’t give him a chance to come down from it, he swallows around Arthur’s cock and moans out his own pleasure as his finger seeks out that spot again, petting Arthur from the inside until he chokes and starts coming down Eames’s throat. Eames follows after him with a slightly less spectacular climax, coating Arthur’s leg in come. Arthur’s knot swells beneath Eames’s fist but doesn’t grow to the size Eames is used to when it’s inside of him. It begins to go down before Arthur has finished shaking from his orgasm, little tremors randomly making his skin erupt in gooseflesh. 

Eames reaches for the wet cloth though it’s cooled by now and uses to it to wipe clean his own crotch and Arthur’s leg before he crawls up the bed to lie beside his Hound. Arthur looks to be in a state of unearthly bliss, his dimples on display due to the width of his grin, eyes no more than half open. He immediately turns into Eames’s chest as Eames gropes around for a blanket that has not been destroyed past covering them. Once he finds one, he pulls Arthur close, resting his chin against the top of Arthur’s head as the Hound nuzzles at his neck, nipping here and there but not breaking the skin.

“Love you,” he hears Arthur whisper sleepily before the adrenaline crash takes him and he slips under into beautiful, calm, quiet sleep.


End file.
